MORNING NOON 
AND NIGHT 



GLENN WARD DRESBACH 




Class .££5X1 
Book ^ 



)0P3TightEl 



CQESRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT 



BY 

Glenn Ward Dresbach 
In the Paths of the Wind 
The Road to Everywhere 



MORNING, NOON AND 
NIGHT 



BY 

GLENN WARD DRESBACH 




Boston 

The Four Seas Company 

1920 



Copyright, 1920, by 
The Four Seas Company 



-¥: 



s<^^° 



The Four Seas Company 
Boston, Mass, U. S. A. 



i^HC 27 IS20 
'CLA605471 



PREFATORY NOTE 

Many of the poems included in this volume have 
appeared in Contemporary Verse, The Bookman, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, The Smart Set, The 
Midland, Romance, Munsey's, The Forum, The Lyric, 
and The Madrigal, and I thank them for permission to 
republish. 

Glenn Ward Dresbach 
Late Captain, S. C, U. S. A. 

Tyrone, New Mexico 
September p, igig 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Songs in the Burro Mountains ii 

Songs while the Apple Blossoms Fall ... 13 

The Nest of the Bluebird 16 

Goodnight Song 25 

While the Caravan Rested 26 

I Made You a Song 31 

Song for a Guitar 32 

Songs While the Leaves Are Falling • • • 33 

The Dreamers 37 

Restless Spirit 38 

Defeat 39 

Chains 40 

The Ship Without a Port 41 

The Village of the Doves 50 

1 Heard a Thrush When Twilight Came . . 51 

The Colonel's Lady 52 

Since Youth is all for Gladness .... 56 

A Morning Road Song 57 

Appointments . . . . ■ 58 

To One Beloved 59 

The Price of Corn 60 

Song, "I Have Loved the Rainbows" ... 62 

You ARE NOT OF A TiME OR PlACE 63 

Songs After the War 64 

The Murderer God Sentenced 67 

The Dance 70 

A Pipe Smoker to a Coquette 71 

Autumn Nocturne ^2 

Follow the Crows 73 

Songs While the First Snow Falls ... 75 

Seeds of the Thistle 79 

A Young Girl Flees the Coming Storm . . 82 



CONTENTS 

Winds That Have Moved the Friendly Trees 83 

lonesomeness 84 

A Farewell 85 

The Grave 86 

The Man Who Would Not Go To War ... 87 

Dewdrops 89 

Song, "You Ask Me Sometimes" ..... 90 

I Had Forgotten 91 

Christmas Eve, 1917 .92 

The Desert and the Sea 93 

Song, "Would You Go in Chariot" .... 94 

Margarita 95 

The Loquacious Outlaw . . . . . . .96 

To THE Night Wind . . 98 

Camouflage loi 

The Lark and the Guinea Hens .... 104 



MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT 



SONGS IN THE BURRO MOUNTAINS 

I. 

I know a little blue-eyed pool 

That lies among wind-shaken pines, 
And from its depths unstirred and cool 
Two streams go forth in silver lines. 
Swift, leaping, twisting, shallow things 
With free wild beauty such as clings 
To memory without a cause. 
Then half a mile away they pause, 
It seems, bewildered, in new lands. 
And creep back to the still, bleached sands. 
And go from sight . . . Oh, are these streams 
The little pool's unconquered Dreams? 
In these high places can it be 
They know of, and would find, the Sea! 

II. 
It seems sometimes that I have been 

A crag wind-crippled cedars clung 
About with roots, while far-oflF green 

Of waving grasses fresh and young 
Taunted my vision — wondered why 
I knew that I must see them die ! 

III. 
There is a hut far up the path. 

Its door has fallen, and the sun 
Looks in by day, and many stars 
Look in when day is done. 
II 



There is an idle mining claim — 
Dug into rock, a fling at Chance! 

But, God, for what there is not here 
Look on his grave in France! 

IV. 

I would build myself a house 
On this mountain top today. 

Not to shun the World, or feel 
It was shutting me away. 
But that I might come at times 
Little things had baffled me. 

And look out, with setting sun, 
On Immensity. 



12 



SONGS WHILE THE APPLEBLOSSOMS FALL 

I. 

Pink and white on the grasses 

The scattered blossoms fall, 
And winds go whispering over 

The moss-grown orchard wall. 

The trees like brides are dropping 
The bridal veil and gown . . . 

Pink and white on the grasses 
The blooms are drifting down. 

But in the leaves is music 

Like fairy violins — 
Bloom-rapture softly passes. 

Fruit-growing now begins. 

But what has gone, with blossoms, 

No fruit gives me or you? 
Something that goes from dreaming 

When the dream comes true! 

n. 

I saw a grown girl wading 

A brook among the trees, 
With sun-warmed water dancing 

About her dimpled knees. 
13 



Three years ago I called her 

Spiildle Legs, and then 
She kicked a cloud of water 

And waded on again. 

But now^ — she heard my footsteps 

And cried, "Oh, go away!" 
Blushing, she smiled and added, 

"I am sixteen today !" 

III. 

There is an old tree standing 

Among the younger trees. 
And from its weathered branches 

No blooms fall on the breeze. 

And as I watch I wonder 

At last how it will be 
When Spring may come, and passing 

Has not a gift from me. 

IV. 
A gipsy passed me with a song 
■- Where men went out to sow, 
And he went down the winding road 
Where the maples grow. 

And still his song came back to me 
When he was far away, 

"The Flask holds but a pint of wine- 
Tomorrow is Today!" 
14 



"My love has made a tent for me 

From stars above the hill — 
Go break your heart, and build yourself 

A stone house, if you will !" 



I made my Love a moon-song 

Just a year ago. 
And hand in hand we wandered 

Where the stars were low . . 

I made my Love a moon-song, 

A wistful silver tune, 
And then her heart danced to it, 

And then she whispered soon, 
"Now I have your moon-song — 

And I want the moon !" 

I led her to a near pool . . . 

The moon was in it, too ! 
I grasped the moon in water — 

The water trickled through 
My fingers — and I held out 

My hand as beggars do ! 



15 



THE NEST OF THE BLUEBIRD 

"A Dreamer has as many lives 
As he can dream. Within the hives 
Of bees is stored the wealth they find 
Roaming the pathways of the Wind," 
Said John, the Dreamer, on^ra day 
We watched the water-lilies sway 
Languidly and restfuUy 
In a brook that sought the sea 
Longingly, yet playfully. 

He said, "It seems that long ago 

I saw the apple blossoms blow 

In a place fairer than this, 

Found there wondrous lips to kiss 

While the blossoms pink and white. 

Touched with darts of golden light. 

Fell on my beloved's breast. 

And in that place was the Bluebird's nest ! 

"Or else why have I always sought 

Through many a life and many a thought 

The Bluebird's nest I found 

And lost, O long ago? 

In an enchanted ground 

That still I seem to know ! . . . 

Long, O very long, ago 

The Circle started. It must end 

Where it started, friend! 

Years and years after 

i6 



The sweet, clear laughter 

May ring again in that same place, 

And I may see again her face 

And see the apple blossoms fall 

Upon her breast, 

Hear Bluebirds call — 

And find again the Bluebird's nest ! . 

"After I lost my first Life's glory 
I remember hazily. 
As in an ancient half-told story, 
How the battle called to me. 
And I see the flash of spears, 
Dimmed now by the mist of years. 
And I feel, somehow, the battle 
Surging through me, hear the rattle 
Of the shields and see grim faces 
That I looked on long ago, 

how very long ago ! 

And I hear the gasps and groans. 
Thuds of blows, and hollow moans, 
And the battle-songs, long-sung 
In a strange remembered tongue . . 

"I remember hazily 
How the battle raged all day 
In the mountains near the sea. 
Then as daylight slipped away 

1 sunk deeper than the sea 
Into emptiness. No more 

I remember of the battle. 

T7 



I remember that a door 

Closed on me. I hear the rattle 

Of the chains that bound me fast 

In a dungeon. Long days passed 

In a stillness like the mold 

On the walls all scarred and old. 

And there I dreamed I saw the sway 

Of branches on a golden day, 

And saw the apple blossoms fall 

Over my beloved's breast. 

In my dreams I heard the call, 

Aching with a mild unrest, 

Of the Bluebirds flitting, flying, 

While I lay in cold hell dying, 

Living — dying. 

Dying — living. 

Gaining nothing, nothing giving ! 

"I remember hazily 

How I heard men calling me. 

Saw the dungeon doors swing wide. 

Blinking, I was led outside 

To the sun! 

Still I feel the leap and run 

Of the glad blood in my heart. 

Once again I was a part 

Of the world that called to me . . . 

"Yet often still it seems to me 
I see cold walls rise gruesomely 
About me in the hush of things. 

i8 



Faintly I hear a bird that sings 
Out in the sunlight, glad and free, 
With things that are denied to me. 
I feel the creep of chill and dread. 
Always alive — yet sometimes dead! 

"I remember hazily 
How I thrilled again to see 
White sails gleaming on the bay. 
And I longed to be away. 
Out into the endless blue, 
Seeking something that I knew 
Could not give me peace or rest. 
So I sailed into the West — 
Long years after, so it seems. 
In a Life — or in my dreams ! 

"I seem to smell the salty spray. 
And see the low shore fade away 
Into the haze, and then the sea 
Spoke and sang, and dreamed with me ! 

"Then an anger at my Fate 
Burned in me, a lean red fire. 
So it seems I came to hate 
All that hindered my desire. 
And the sea grew wilder, too. 
Over all the open blue 
Fell a writhing mask of cloud. 
Voices in the winds were loud. 
Loud and wild. Then came the still 

19 



Madness before the storm that came 
Suddenly with swords of flame. 
Bellowing upon the sea. 
A strange gladness stirred in me! 

"I remember hazily 

Rising, falling with the sea. 

Wearily and dreamily, 

On a spar alone, alone. 

In the vastness, with the moan 

Of the spent winds over me. 

Hours later — hours of hell — 

With a blindly groping hand 

I crawled from the sea to sand 

On a bare beach. There I fell 

In deep sleep — to dream, to dream 

Of an old enchanted place 

And of my beloved's face ! 

From the dream 

I awoke and climbed a hill 

Crowned with trees and very still 

But for great birds over me, 

Crying in from sea. 

There I found a cool, clear rill, 

Found ripe fruit upon a tree 

And I drank and ate my fill. 

Then I roamed across the hill. 

Heard the waters dash and moan 

And I found I was alone 

On a little isle. 

There I stayed a weary while . . . 

20 



Now and then I saw a sail, 
Shouted, wept, to no avail — 
Ever sails passed by. 
Nothing but the sea bird's cry 
Answered me. 

And I wished my soul could fly, 
Like the white sails out at sea. 
Out of me, leaving me 
In the place I crept to die. 

"And often still it seems td me 

I see the gleam of sails at sea, 

Of sails that pass and leave me still 

Upon my silent hill. 

I see the waves that toss and moan, 

With worlds before me — ^yet alone 

While fade the sails in sunset fire 

Out toward the lands of my Desire ! 

"Then one day came a little ship 
That roamed there on a pleasure trip, 
And I was saved. No gladness 
Lifted my sullen madness. 
I saw the island fade 
All touched with amethyst and jade. 
As in a dream that had not known 
The days that I lived there alone. 

"I remember hazily 

That I saw from far at sea 

A city's spires arise 

21 



Into the leaden skies — 

And then forgetfulness ! The page 

Of Dreams is here a blank. An Age 

Passes in silence. Then, again 

I lived within a world of men 

And women, in a place where feet 

Throbbed in my brain as on the street. 

I remember hazily 

Crowds that hurried on with me — 

Painted faces, weary faces, 

Rags and velvet gowns and laces. 

Gray-day clothes and play-day clothes ! 

Never any sweet repose 

Filled me. On from place to place 

I was swept with frenzied pace. 

I remember rather clearly 

That all pleasure cost me dearly. 

Youth's enchantment left me there — 

I read stories in a stare. 

In the lines of mouth and brow. 

Even as I read them now. 

I remember how I toiled 

In a place where dreams were spoiled, 

Gaining wealth, and spending it, 

Spending it, and lending it — 

Laughing harshly, hungrily 

For a joy lost to me! 

"I remember hazily 

That a girl came up to me 

As I strolled a park one night 

22 



When the airs of Spring were light. 

I saw the lights reveal her face, 

Its lure, its light, its plain disgrace, 

And maddened suddenly 

I clasped her close; as suddenly 

I hurled her arms from me. 

I caught the scent of apple bloom 

That seemed to rise from out a tomb 

That was in me. I heard the call 

Of Bluebirds far, O far away. 

And that is all — 

An old Dream held me in its sway 

An old Love-life would have its way! 

'T lived again within a city, 
And little hope and little pity 
Walked the streets with me: 
I remember hazily 
How wealth fell into my hands, 
How I gained in power and pride, 
How the world walked at my side 
Bowing — holding out its hands ! 

'T remember hazily 

That the lights gleamed over me 

In my mansion near the sea. 

That my guests were in the rooms. 

Subtle smiles and thick perfumes 

Were about me everywhere. 

Each face seemed a mask to wear 

Brazenly or fearfully 

In my mansion near the sea. 

23 



"On a starry balcony 

With a woman that was fair, 

I remember hazily 

How the clean, sea- freshened air 

Blew a lock of perfumed hair 

Till it touched my cheek. 

Then she swayed, as in a mist 

In my arms. Her lips I kissed 

And she kissed mine. Then suddenly. 

While I listened, strangely weak, 

I heard a Bluebird calling me, 

Far and far away ! 

"That is why I left next day 

All the city streets behind 

For the Pathways of the Wind . . . 

"I shall seek — and I shall find 
Some day, in this Life or the next, 
So says my golden dream-book's text. 
My Dream's enchanted place. 
And look on my beloved's face 
While the blossoms pink and white. 
Touched with darts of golden light, 
Fall upon her breast. 
And I shall find the Bluebird's nest! 
O I shall find the Bluebird's nest ! 

"Long, O very long ago. 
Touched with golden gleam and glow. 
The Circle started. It must end 
Where it started, friend!" 

24 



GOODNIGHT SONG 

No night comes down with stars for me 

But that I think of you. 
There is a half-heard symphony, 

As if the Silence knew 
The words you whispered. In the Spring 
When grass and leaf are whispering 
I hear you whisper. Summer brings 
With fruit among the whispering leaves 
A tone, and then my soul believes 
In all that lives, in all that sings. 
And when the Autumn moonlight weaves 
Its magic over things that pass, 
The grain, the leaves, the drooping grass, 
Because you speak in all these things 
My soul looks on with guided eyes, 
And then believes in all that dies. 
Ah, gone is olden mystery ! 

I know now what your spirit knew — 
No night comes down with stars for me 

But that I think of you ! 



25 



WHILE THE CARAVAN RESTED 

All day I had been riding on the plains 
While heat-waves rippled like a hateful sea 
And hot winds curled the grasses. Here and there 
I saw a cornfield with its tassels dried 
And drooping with defeated hopes of growth. 
Late in the afternoon I reached a house 
Where two small cottonwoods stood wearily. 
Their thirsting leaves stirred harshly in the wind. 
I found the place deserted, and the floors 
Of two small rooms were covered with the dust 
Of many wind-storms. In a spider's corner 
I found some school books scattered on the floor. 
And as I looked through one of them I saw 
A little picture stuck between the leaves. 
A girl with full lips and a mass of hair 
Smiled from the picture, but it seemed her eyes 
Were looking far for many things unfound. 
Impatiently I threw the book aside 
Where I had found it, yet kept wondering 
About the girl, while I went on my way. 
A little further on I turned to look 
Back at that small house with its little trees 
Drooped in the heat. My horse was lathered white 
Along the neck, and I was glad to find 
A sturdy group of trees some miles ahead. 
The farmer came to meet me at his gate, 
And when my horse was watered and turned loose 
To eat the grass grown high around the well 
The farmer sat with me beneath the trees 

26 



And talked of drouth. His old eyes squinted hard 

Across the level lands, his knotted hands 

Trembled with weariness, it seemed to me. 

He said, "This is a land that sometimes gives 

And sometimes takes. You need a hardy soul 

To fight its moods and win . . . My children went 

To find work in the city, and I think 

That I am glad of it although my wife 

Is rather lonely. I get lonely, too. 

Old as I am, but I must keep the farm. 

I studied for the law, but failed at that 

And took this homestead years ago, and worked 

And made a living while my children grew." 

I had been thinking of the house I found 
Deserted, with its little cottonwoods 
Dying for water. 

Then I said to him, 
"I passed an empty house this afternoon, 
A few miles back along the road, and felt 
The power of these plains against a heart." 

"Jane Hastings lived there for a year," he said, 
"And then she left the place, just as it stands. 
One day last Spring. I'll tell you how it was. 
Two years ago she came to teach the school. 
And boarded here with us. Her folks were dead 
And we looked after her as best we could. 
She was a queer girl, pretty, full of life. 
But rather sullen. She would sit for hours, 
Beneath these trees, when she came home from school 

2.y 



And look across the plains. My wife would say, 
"That girl needs love. She's not the kind to be 
Always alone." 

But no young men lived near 
And so her days were only work and dreams 
That were unrealized. At last she said 
She had decided to take up some land. 
I helped her fix it up and when her place 
Was ready she moved there and lived alone. 
We went to see her sometimes or she stopped 
To visit us when she came back from school. 
She talked about her plans to save enough 
From teaching and her homestead for a year 
In college, then she'd start her nervous talk 
Of gowns and dances, and her eyes would burn. 
Last Spring came early and she seemed to be 
More restless every day. When school was out 
She went into the city for a week. 
When she came back there was a bitterness 
About her that we had not known before. 
My wife said, "Either some one hurt her pride 
Or some young fool has loved her for a week 
And then forgot her kisses." 

For awhile 
We did not see her. Then we went one night 
To talk to her. There was a great full moon 
Over the plains and winds were sweet with scents 
Of growing grasses. Jane was lying down — 
Stretched out in her best dress upon the grass, 
Shaken with weeping. When she heard us there 
She rushed into the house and would not talk. 

28 



So we sat down upon the porch and waited 
As old folks can. She came out afterwhile 
And talked with us. My wife asked her to come 
And live with us again, but Jane refused, 
Although she thanked us. 

While I worked next day 
In that cornfield you see along the road, 
I saw some covered wagons — six of them 
As I remember. They stopped at the house. 
I saw the gipsy women go to beg, 
And I stood watching till I saw my wife 
Send them away. Then I went on with work. 
At noon my wife said, "If the gipsies stopped 
At Jane's house she'd be frightened. Better go 
And see that she's all right." 

And so I went. 
The gipsy caravan had stopped, I saw 
The smoke of little fires where they cooked. 
Women in bright dress walked about the place. 
As I drew near I saw a handsome fellow 
Talking to Jane. Her face was flushed. He held 
One of her hands, and while he talked to her 
Old women watched and cackled mirthlessly. 
I walked among them and called out to Jane. 
She turned and looked at me, and then she laughed. 
With one swift movement she pulled down her hair; 
It showered to her waist and caught the sun. 
She did not speak. Her eyes flashed out at me 
A challenge — and I saw her as she was !" 

29 



"The gipsy women laughed at me, the men 
Smoked quietly. I turned and went away," 

"Half way back home I turned about again, 

Hoping that I might win her senses back.. 

Before I reached the house the caravan 

Was starting on its way across the plains. 

I rode beside the wagons. In the third 

I saw Jane sitting at the driver's side. 

And they were talking, laughing, while the wind 

Sweet with the scents of growing grasses came 

To blow Jane's hair and hide her eyes from me." 



30 



I MADE YOU A SONG 

I made you a song of rain along the tree-tops 
In an old woodland that the World forgets, 

Then found that Spring had wandered to a hillside 
And written it in violets. 

I made you a song of an old, nameless longing 
Where you had walked the moon-mad sands with me. 

Then heard, above my heart, forever singing 
The vasty longing of the Sea. 

And now I make you but a song of loving, 

Of young blood thrilled and lips that touch and 
cling — 

Something the Spring cannot write out in flowers 
Nor waters of the Sea can sing . . . 

But with the violets upon the hillside 

This song of love may fade, in season die — 

Only is sure the old Sea's vasty longing. 
And yet 1 cannot tell you why ! 



31 



SONG FOR A GUITAR 

I gave you robes of rainbows 
And my Dreams' silver shoon, 

And sang to you of hill-roads 
That go to meet the Moon. 

And now you think the splendor 
Is all your own. You live 

Forgetful of the giving 

That gave you things to give. 

I have more robes of rainbows, 
And shoon for roads apart — 

But what if I had given 
To you my heart? 



32 



SONGS WHILE THE LEAVES ARE FALLING 

I. 

There is a slender tree that grows 

Beside a road where people pass ; 
Through it a wind that chills it goes 

And shakes its leaves upon the grass, 
And I, who watched these same leaves grdw 

All fresh and young, and Summer long 

Heard their young whispers and their song, 
Then saw their golden passage, know 

Two golden leaves are clinging now 

Upon one little twisted bough 

Half-hidden, and when winds are high 

Two rustUng golden banners fly, 

Tiny, but bright, against the gray 

Of troubled skies that care not how 

Leaves cling awhile or drift away. 

When will these golden banners come 
From their high place to join the dumb 
And driven throng that moves with Death? 
Each day I look with hurried breath. 
And wish that they might wave and cling 
To see the promise of the Spring. 

And O, my Heart, so you may hold 
Two Dreams that Life may turn to gold — 
When all my other dreams must pass 
Like leaves blown down upon the grass. 
33 



II. 

When once the bud has made the rose 

It cannot be the bud again — 
Its passion stirs, its glory grows 

Beyond its being then. 

So, Dream, since you the Real have made, 
You cannot be the dream and rest — 

For I have kissed her lips and laid 
My head upon her breast. 

III. 
The birds are flying to the South. 

Their calls drift down the skies. 
The song that trembled at my lips 

Falls pierced with doubt, and dies. 

The birds are flying South to trees 

With green leaves brightly spread . . . 

Shall all my singing dreams leave me 
When Youth is dead? 

IV. 
If I had choice to be a tree 

I would not be an evergreen, 
Living with peaceful certainty. 

Seeing the same boughs I had seen 
Since I had sprouted, always sure 
My greenery would still endure 
The change of seasons, never thrilled 
With rapturous leaves, while nothing killed 

34 



But slow, dull Age . . . O I would be 

Any kind of growing tree 

That knows the magic and the thrill 

Of glowing leaves, that frost can kill 

Only by turning them to gold. 

O I would stand with branches bold 

Braving the winds until again 

The benediction of warm rain 

Fell on the earth, and song came up 

From all my roots, and I could sup 

And dine with all the gods of Earth, 

And fear no death, grown wise in birth. 



V. 

The man may be the child again 

When Autumn winds in shadow moan. 

And the cold rains beat the window pane 
And a heart feels all alone. 

I will not bear this loneliness, 

This madness, this unrest — 
I shall go out and gently press 

The dead leaves to my breast. 



VI. 
What is this voice that calls 

Like a dream in the night, 
Bringing thoughts that are flushed 

All rosy-bright? 

35 



The voice says, "I am the Love 

That came in the Spring, 
And whispered until you Hved 

In my whispering. 

I am the Love that took 

The wrinkles from your brow." 
And I answer the voice in the night, 

"It is Autumn now. 

And I hear the whisper of leaves 

That fade, and silently 
The dark clouds pass ... Be gone — 

Or comfort me!" 



VII. 
Drunken fellows, all together 

Let us dance away, 
Gold leaf, yellow leaf. 

And leaf all crimson-gay, — 
We are drunken with the World 

That bids us on our way. 

Drunken fellows, all together 

Let us outward fare 
With a chuckling madness 

Through the frosted air — 
Now the World is through with us 

Show we do not care! 

36 



THE DREAMERS, 1917 

War gnawed the bones of Nations; Hunger went 
Into the hearts and souls of people. Then 
The Dreamers called their tenderest Dreams and sent 
Them out to stay the carnage of brave men . . . 
Back to the Dreamers came the Dreams' lament, 
"O take your Swords, that we may live again ]" 



37 



O RESTLESS SPIRIT 

O restless Spirit, roaming toward the Sun 
And longing for the coolness of the dark, 
Or roaming in the shadows with a mark 
Set on the hills where Morning may be won ! 
You are the power that has moved each one 
Whose heart has met the morning with the lark 
Or gone alone to hells where move the stark 
And speechless Dreams, with dreaming never done. 

O restless Spirit that is mine, I seek 
Peace for you in the beauties of the world. 
Passing through pain to find them, still aware 
Something must go unfound until in bleak 
And final night my last of Life is hurled. 
Too wise for faith, too faithful for despair. 



38 



DEFEAT 

There is defeat where death gives anodyne 

And all desires of the battle wane 

In deep forgetfulness, and the one slain 

Lies with his face turned toward the firing-line. 

There is defeat where flesh fails the design 

Of Spirit, and the groping, tortured brain 

Sees glories lost it cannot win again 

And wears its self out like effect of wine. 

But no defeat is quite so imminent 
To common ways as the defeat Success 
Turns into when it puts aside the dreams 
That made it be, and, somehow, grows content 
With what it is, forever growing less 
Until it is not, and no longer seems. 



39 



CHAINS 

Why did you not hold me with chains 

Of steel all dull and cold 
That I might strain against their strength 

As long as they could hold? 

That I might see the links sink in 
My flesh and make blood flow, 

While I could hope to break my chains 
And hurl them down and go! 

But in these chains you hold me with 

Only my Spirit frets — 
For who could use brute force to break 

A chain of violets ! 



40 



THE SHIP WITHOUT A PORT 

The tropic island reached into the sea 

With lengths of land, here, there and everywhere, 

Stretched out like tendrils of an octopus. 

The place, for all its crowded trees and vines. 

Its flaming colors and its haunting calls, 

Was very lonely. In a narrow bay 

We found a village, and the negroes came 

With fruits to sell, and language understood. 

Since we had heard the English tongue, at times. 

Treated almost as badly in the States. 

The only white man in the place came down 
To visit us when he had heard our boat 
Was anchored in the bay. He had some land 
The negroes worked for him, but best of all. 
As we found out that afternoon, he had 
A tale to tell. 

The bay was very still. 
We sat upon the deck and watched the sea 
Taking siesta under canopies 
Of endless, throbbing blue. We saw a boat 
Draw near, with spread of sail that made our own 
Seem greater. Negroes waded out with fruit 
And water, and the ship turned out again, 
A white sail seeking silence as if driven 
By more than sleepy wind. 

The white man stirred 
After his eyes had followed it from sight. 
He said, "That is a ship without a port. 

41 



It sails about this island day by day, 

And month by month, and year by year, yet never 

Anchors for long, save when storms drive it in 

To some unhabited and desolate bay . . . 

A man and woman live upon that boat. 

It is their world, and like their boat they have 

No port of all the endless world of ports." 

"That sounds uncanny," said the mate, "The ship 
Gave me the shivers, and it seemed deserted 
Except for that lean gray man at the wheel." 

"The woman keeps from sight," our guest replied. 
"I have not seen her, when the ship was in. 
Since that day years ago, when she went out 
Upon its deck and waved a last goodbye 
To their unseen plantation in the hills." 

He paused and then continued with his talk, 
In monotone like one who has become 
A talker to himself in loneliness, 
"Bananas grow upon this island. Miles 
And miles of land beyond this bay were filled 
With trees. The man who sails that boat we saw 
Owned great plantations now gone back again 
To be the jungle. I was doctor then 
For the plantation, and I stay here now 
To treat the negroes, and live — in a way — 
Because there is no other place for me." 

42 



"The man was rich and kindly then. At first 
He Hved alone, and we would often sit 
The evening hours together . . , Then he grew 
Restless and morbid from the loneliness 
And started drinking heavily. He found 
That did not make things right, and so he went 
On a vacation, and when he returned 
A glowing woman came with him. He said 
They had been married on the Isthmus; so 
Their new life started, and I often felt 
Things were not well with them after a month. 
She roamed about the house as if it were 
A hateful cage, and she was like a leopard, 
Lithe, slender, full of color, full of fire. 
With devils and angels fighting in her eyes. 
She was a half-breed — Spanish — something else, 
And she was wine and fire and silk and hell 
All in a parcel shaped most beautifully 
To lure the eyes and make the heart go mad. 
The man, McGregor, (let me call him that) 
Was often gone on business. Then his wife 
Would wear her maddest gowns and drink her wine 
Until she lost what little sense she had 
To start with. So the trouble started off. 
McGregor's foreman was a half-breed, too. 
Spanish — and something else. Before he came 
To work on the plantation he had been 
The master of a trading ship that sailed 
Among the islands. He was young and full 
Of all that makes the Tropics. Handsome, too, 
But rather frail from fever, so he said. 

43 



Well, when McGregor was away this man 
Began to creep up to McGregor's house 
And spend a quiet night of it, I heard. 
I knew McGregor — ^knew that he would kill, 
And that, in spite of all their family fights, 
Would fight the Devil for her. And I knew 
His heart was in her power just as much 
As if it had been chained to her, to throw 
Into her veins the hot, strong blood of his. 
And, knowing this, I did not dare to tell 
McGregor what I knew. 

One day when rain 
Had started pounding on the island fields 
The foreman came to me. He said, 'I'm seek 
With fevair, Doctair, give me medeceen.' 
I looked him over. On his neck I found 
A spot that sent me from him, as from plague. 
'You fool,' I cried, 'You have the leprosy.' 
He did not say a word. He left the house 
As if he had been stunned, and that same day, 
With words to no one, he had disappeared. 

"Then I thought of McGregor's wife and him. 

Well, it was hell 1 I knew what I should do. 

But feared to do it. So I took a chance. 

I thought things were all right, for weeks had passed 

And nothing happened at McGregor's house 

Except the usual things. I felt at ease. 

McGregor came one day and said, 'My wife 

Is not as well as usual, and her face 

Has queer marks on it.' 

44 



Then I lost my voice . . . 
I felt the cold sweat rush out over me, 
McGregor stared at me and said, 'You fool, 
If you are sober, come and fix her up/ 

"I went with him . . . She was a leper then. 

As best I could I told him. And she wept 

And moaned, and there her half-mad husband stood. 

All white and still, with struggles such as men 

May seldom know, within his heart. At last 

He said, 'That settles it. We go from here. 

If the authorities should find this out 

They'd send her to a colony.' 

I stared 
At him and pitied him, and, damn the woman, 
I could have strangled her in human hate.. 

"McGregor made plans, then he made more plans. 

The outcome of them was this ship you saw 

Sail out of silence back to silence ... So 

Two lepers live now in that ship that sails 

About this island day by day, and month 

By month, and year by year — a little ship 

From Nowhere bound for Nowhere until Death !" 



45 



SONGS WHILE THE FRUIT IS GROWING 

I. 

There is a dusty road that goes 

Among the farms, and all the day 

Its dust is stirred by loads of hay 
And brown bare feet, and no repose 
Comes with the gloom, for then the teams 

Go with the lovers into town, 
Or some young cavaliers of Dreams 

Drive only up the road or down. 
And down this road there is a brook, 

A wooded hill, and from the road 
A lane turns off as if it took 

Its way just to escape the load 
Of weary traffic, never done. 
As some impetuous, hopeful son 
Among these farms has turned away 
To seek for Beauty and the gay. 
Wild dreams that called him, while his kin 
Spoke of his going like a sin. 
Yet envied him, and seeing less 
Of him loved more his uselessness. 

II. 

We turned into the lane and heard 
The happy chatter of a bird 
Beside its nest, and far away 
We heard the creaking loads of hay 
Go on the road. About our feet 
Was uncut clover red and sweet, 

46 



And under willows, silver, cool. 
We saw skies mirrored in a pool — 
And there I wondered as I stood 
Why there was not more brotherhood 
Between Land-toil and Beauty . . . Sod 
Was warm and fragrant, and a god 
Had left the echoes of his reed 
Where willow leaves and thrushes heed. 

And then I heard down in the field. 
Where men toiled on with muscles steeled, 
A voice, hard for the struggle, say, 
"A rain would play hell with this hay." 

Things that are Beauty for one spoil 
Some other's work, and some one's toil 
Another's bit of Beauty mars ! 
Thank God, we still may keep the Stars! 



III. 
I saw a grown girl coming down 

The field with water for the men. 
Her hair fell golden in the wind. 

She stopped and bound it up again. 

Her thin dress by the wind was pressed 
(Was it in passion or in play?) 

Against the full growth of her breast . . . 
The men looked up. She looked away. 

47 



VI. 

You saw me staring at the girl 

And then you stared at me. 
Why did you come so close and kiss 

My lips so passionately? 
I would not have you quite so young, 

Or quite so shy as she. 

V. 

There is a strong young apple tree 

In growth-dreams hushed. 
Its many apples in the sun 

Have not yet blushed. 

And in this place off of the road 

May grow un found 
This fruit, for hard, cold winds to shake 

Down to the ground. 

Wasted the beauty, gone the dream 

It knew above! 
What if one time you had not found 

My love? 

VI. 
Was that a faun that stirred the grass 
To musky perfumes where we pass ? 
What pagan god has tuned the trees 
And sowed the seeds of sorceries? 
The red of clover haunts my eyes. 
The passion of the simlight flies 

48 



Into my being. Throbbing bees 
Are gathering honey as we go 
Through melodies all thrilled and low. 
I look at you and something grips 
My heart, and sun is on my lips. 
The sun is on your hair and breast, 
And in your eyes, and you have pressed 
The sunlight closer, till it burns 
And all the place to fire turns — 
I cannot see the clover's red 
Or green fruit growing overhead . . . 
Only I know with what strange power 
The bee creeps down into the flower 
In blinding passion, thrills and clings, 
Then leaves with sweetness on his wings. 



VII. 
I saw a little boy one day 

With berry stains upon his face 
Come back to heated streets and gray 

From some near country-place. 
And every one who saw the child 
Remembered many things, and smiled. 

You shake the sunbeams from your hair, 
And neatly bind it up again — 

And smile as if you did not care! 
Blame me for laughing then! 

"Hush, dear," you say, and try to frown 

When I would tease the splendor down. 

49 



THE VILLAGE OF THE DOVES 

The road went lazily along the hill 
And then dropped slowly into that small town 
We saw like patch-work in the valley, brown, 
And gray, with dull trees very squat and still. 
An old man peered at us. His window sill 
Was much the color of his face. A frown 
Turned to a smile, and then we settled down 
For him to smoke with us and talk at will. 

Three doves flew near. A dozen burros moped, 
Scorned by a mangy dog . . . No lovely face, 
And yet we sensed a Life that dreams and loves 
With browns and grays, where sandy streets had sloped 
For years to sand. I asked, "What is this place?" 
He said, "Senor, the Village of the Doves." 



50 



I HEARD A THRUSH WHEN TWILIGHT 
CAME 

I heard a thrush when twilight came 
Song of the woes it had not known — 

Of hearts that burned in rainbow flame, 
Of barren fields where seeds were sown. 

And then it sang of happy trees 
Where fruit is golden in the sun, 

Of raptures and of mysteries 
Through which the songs of seasons run. 

And I was sadder for the song 

Of rapture than the song of pain — 

For one lost gladness, gone so long. 
Came back and could not hurt again! 



51 



THE COLONEL'S LADY 

Outside the Colonel's house in Corozal 
Were many roses, and the neighbors said 
The thorns were on the inside. Very well 
The Colonel hid their scratches, and his wife. 
Ten years his junior, did almost as well. 
And he was like a steel trap, quick and bright, 
And set for action, but some ladies said 
That, on great provocation, he would drink 
More liquor than he needed, and without 
The slightest provocation he would smile 
Into a woman's eyes . . . Perhaps they knew. 

His wife was like a jungle flower that grew 

Too much in shade and lost its coloring 

At fullest bloom. The coloring she lacked 

In looks her bright imagination saved 

And made pink turn to purple. She had heard 

So much about the Tropics' wickedness 

That in her thoughts she saw that she was like 

A slim white lily growing in the center 

Of flaming passion flowers circled near. 

One lady, just a little worldly wise. 

Said that the Colonel took his wife one time 

When he was making New Year's resolutions — 

And that she was the only one he kept! 

Tongues wag like palm leaves in the tropic towns, 
But do more harm and are not half as bright. 
And gossip drifting to the Colonel's Lady, 

52 



As she was called by others envious 
Of her position, gave her many things 
To worry over, and the least of these 
Was not Juanita who had served them well 
For half a season. For Juanita's eyes 
Were like dark pools of water in the hills 
When twilight and the jungle fall in love . . . 
What chance had Manuel who often came 
To win Juanita with his soft guitar 
Perchance the Colonel even glanced at her? 

The Colonel's Lady watched with busy eyes. 
One night the Colonel touched Juanita's hand 
When she was pouring water. Was it chance 
Or was it but a sign agreed upon? 

The Colonel left the house for Panama 

To spend the night, he said, and then his wife 

Said to the girl, 

"Juanita, for tonight 
You sleep in my room and I sleep in yours." 
And, quite surprised, the girl obeyed so well 
The Colonel's Lady smiled in righteousness. 

Rain started pounding on the roof. The dark 
Came quickly after, and Juanita went 
Into the room with things she loved to touch. 
Soft pillows, and the laces soft as mist 
Above the little streams of Panama, 
And dreaming there of sudden wealth she slept. 
And in Juanita's room the Colonel's Lady 

53 



Let down her hair, and touched it with perfume 

That was Juanita's, then she robed herself 

In filmy nightdress, and upon a bed 

Not soft as she had hoped, she sat to wait 

As if she hoped some one would enter there 

And crush her cold lips, telling her of love. 

Rain pounded on the roof. She heard her heart 
Pound with the rain. She knew what she would do 
When he came in. She'd give him kiss for kiss — 
And then at last she'd turn on all the lights. 
And she would say, "Well, Colonel, can it be 
That you have lost your way in this small house?" 
She thrilled to think how it would worry him 
When she would gently speak about divorce . . . 

She heard soft footsteps through the rush of rain. 
They reached the door. They paused, and silently 
Chill of the rain's breath filled the opened door 
That softly closed. The room was warm and still. 
A raincoat rustled, then was put aside. 
Warm hands reached out to her, and, at the touch 
Of her, strong arms held close and hot lips held 
Her lips. She thought, through tumult in her brain, 
"The Colonel never kissed me so before." 

"Juanita," breathed a voice, and then she felt 
A terror that was quick and powerful. 
The voice that spoke was not her husband's voice. 
She screamed, and footsteps that she had not heard 
Before they reached the house, came pounding in 

54 



Across the porch, and then the door swung wide 
And Hghts flashed on . . . The Colonel glared at them. 
He saw his wife wild-eyed with fear and shame, 
And Manuel who stood near by and shook 
As with a chill from Chagre's poisoned swamps. 

"Well, I'll be damned," the Colonel said, "What's this? 
You yellow dog, what are you doing here? 
And you — " 

Cried Manuel, "Juanita's room! 
She marry me last week. We want you not 
To know for fear she have to leave this place. 
I tell her I not come tonight, but then 
I could not work for rain and came, and here 
Juanita is not. How am I to blame? 
The darkness, Senor! How was I to know?" 

The Colonel stared. The Colonel's Lady wept. 
And Manuel stood shaking as with chills. 
"Go," said the Colonel, "What's the use of talk?" 
And Manuel went out through pounding rain. 
The Colonel's Lady wept and tried to speak 
But had no time for words the Colonel went 
So quickly from the room when he had said, 
"You may live here until we are divorced." 

She heard his quick, strong footsteps leave the house 
And die away out in the pounding rain . . , 



55 



"SINCE YOUTH IS ALL FOR GLADNESS" 

Since Youth is all for gladness, 
And dreams and rainbow-skies, 

For rapture and moon-madness, 
Why are Youth's eyes so wise? 

Since Youth is all for vaunting 
Adventures, scorning fears — 

Is there not something haunting 
In Youth's incongruous tears? 

O Youth must bleed and measure 
The days and span the sea — 

But Age will keep for pleasure 
What Youth thought misery. 



56 



A MORNING ROAD SONG 

There are roads that lead to temples 
And the bells chime far away, 

And the white flames of the sunlight 
Throb upon the trappings gay . . . 

Would you follow to the temples 
Or turn off to Mandalay? 

There are roads that lead to silver 
And the crags shine hard and gray; 

Through the silence of the mountains 
Slowly pack-trains lurch and sway . . 

Would you find a mine of silver 
Or turn back to Monterey? 

Here's a road that leads to Somewhere 
And a voice has called today, 

And I hear the leaves like music — 
Where's the piper I must pay ? 

Here's a road that leads to Somewhere- 
And I'm going all the way ! 



57 



APPOINTMENTS 

I cannot dine with you today 

And hear how all your wealth does good, 
I have an appointment with a thrush 

That sings in a distant wood. 

I cannot dance with you tonight 
And hear your voice above each tune — 

I have an appointment with a wind 
That sings to greet the moon. 



58 



TO ONE BELOVED 

Because I willed to have it so 

I went last night where great trees grow, 

And under them I made a bed 

Of leaves and grasses, and my head 

Was pillowed on the ripened clover . . . 

It was beside a mountain stream 

Where laden branches, bending over. 

Make many patterns for a dream. 

And there before I slept I heard 

The leaves make melodies that stirred 

An answer in my heart, and soon 

New beauties flooded from the moon 

About that cool, calm place. To me 

Was given as to stream and grass and tree. 

And now I come this morning to the town 

With sunlight over me. 
As that stream from the heights goes down 

To give unto the Sea — 
I am as grass that has known touch of dew, 
I am as leaves the moonlight has shown through! 

This is the morning that I may express 
More understanding of your loveliness. 



59 



THE PRICE OF CORN 

The World was hungry and War gave the Earth 
Rich blood to drink in many lands. At home 
John Render had four fields; in three of these 
He planted corn, because the price was high. 
And when the sun had turned the corn to gold 
And miser winds shook it to hear it rattle, 
The farmer said, "The corn is ripe to husk." 
And as he spoke the price of corn went higher. 

Hard days he worked to bring the corn from field — 
Up in the dusk and home when dusk was starred! 

Two nights before he planned to have his com 
All husked his young wife told him that their child 
Was hot with fever. 

"It will pass," said John, 
And, weary with his work, forgot the child, 
Their first-born, now gaining the dignity 
Of walking upright as a man-child should. 

At noon next day while John wolfed down his food 

His wife asked him to go into their room 

To see the child who tossed about and listened 

To nothing that she said. John went with her 

And when he saw his little son he felt 

A moment's fear and said, "You'd better send 

To town and get the doctor." 

"But you know 
There's no one I can send. We are so far, 

60 



And every one is busy husking corn," 
Replied his wife, sharply, to hide her tears. 
"You go yourself. The corn that's left can wait 
A day or two," she added. 

With no word 
He took a horse and started out for town. 
Along the road the wind shook fields of corn, 
And John was angry that he could not be 
In his own field. Half way to town he met 
The doctor driving rapidly. They stopped, 
And when the doctor heard about the child 
He said, "Well, I am glad you did not wait 
Like Simon Miller did. I'm on my way 
To his house now. He was so wild with corn 
He did not come for me. Last night his wife 
Crept to the barn and got a horse and rode 
Like mad to town. And when I reached the farm 
Their child was dying. That's a price of corn 
Higher than he reckoned on." 

"My God," 
Shouted John Render, "hurry to my place." 
And as they went John paid the price of corn. 



6i 



SONG 

I have loved the rainbows 
And the wild gusts of rain, 

And white ships in the dark storms, 
And leopard-women twain. 

I have loved the red dawns 
And waters deep and blue. 

And roads that burned with moonlight- 
How can I love you? 



62 



YOU ARE NOT OF A TIME OR PLACE 

You are not of a time or place. You are 

Not of a dream or of an incident. 

In all times and all places my heart went 

You followed. Still you follow . . . Not a star 

Are you to lead me in the dark, not far 

And proud with crown or empty sacrament. 

O could I find in nearness more content, 

could I grasp, or see, the things that bar! 

1 touch you, as through bars, when my hot hand 
Touches a rose in darkness, I have kissed 
Your lips on other lips that came between 

Our lips a moment after. When I stand 
Looking in lovely eyes, as through warm mist, 
I see your eyes — then ache that I have seen. 



63 



SONGS AFTER THE WAR 

I. 

I shall remember the bugles 
Though no more calls may be. 

For they are part of my being, 
Sounding reveille. 

If ever I shun the morrow, 

If ever my banners fall, 
Shrill in my dreams at morning. 

Call, O Bugles, call ! 

II. 
I have seen the sharp pain 

In the eyes that see no more, 
I have seen the torn limbs 

That are no longer sore — 
And I have seen the gold stars 

With silence at the door. 

I have seen a man's smile 

When Death was in his eyes, 
I have heard the quick breath 

And the last goodbyes. 
And I have wept to know them 

With tears like battle-cries! 

But O, such pain is blessed. 

And O, such loss is gain. 
And such death is like living 

When men are men again ! . . . 
64 



But, Lord of Nations, tell us 
That Wars no more remain! 

III. 

A bird is singing in the dusk 

That smells of distant rain. 
The stirred grass gives a scent of musk — 

O Heart now sing again ! 

"What shall I sing?" (The voice is sad) 

"Of men who had to die. 
Of maidens ravished, wives gone mad.'"' 

Be still, my Heart, I cry! 

IV. 

You make me weary with your chatter 
About the things your Soul will do 

When you are dead. What will it matter 
If all the words you say are true? 

You have life now but are not growing — 
If you had wings you would not fly! 

If Life has little worth the knowing 
You may find less when you must die. 

For me, I'll take what Life is giving. 
Earth-born, I gladly sing of birth 

Till all my body, worn with living. 
Sleeps — and is still a part of Earth ! 

V. 
I think I shall not go today 
To strive with any one. 
65 



I'll drink, on hill-roads far away, 
The golden wine of Sun. 

And maple leaves, like dancing girls, 

Will shake their silver shoon, 
And weeping willows toss their curls. 

And whisper of the Moon. 

And I shall watch and drink my best 

And dream, and wink at Mirth, 
Till giddy, drunk, I clasp the breast 

Of many-passioned Earth. 

The warmth that blushed the slim wild rose 
Earth's great breast lifts to me — 

When my cold body seeks repose 
How different it will be! 

VI. 
Ah, men are building strong and high 

These days, — for dreams remain! 
And here I sit and wonder why 

Old Tom is drunk again! 

Ah, women have new looms to try 

And love is still as sweet. 
And here I sit while passes by 

A girl who walks the street! 

Ah, Life is building just the same 

As Life built ages past — 
The towers strong, the rainbow flame. 

The quick leaves for the blast! 
66 



THE MURDERER GOD SENTENCED 

The leaves were falling and winds came and went, 

Slow shuttles weaving red and gold and brown 

Into the stuff of Dreams. Along the lane 

I met an old man coming home from town. 

His face was like a yellow leaf that long 

Had known the touch of rain, but when he spoke 

His voice was like a lively autumn wind. 

We talked awhile and smoked our pipes. I asked, 

"How did you come to stay so long in town?" 

He shifted some small bundles that he held 

And said, "There was a hanging. One who killed 

Was killed by Justice in the Courthouse yard." 

Before I had a question he went on 
Speaking in that same liveliness of winds, 
"But never have I seen a murderer 
Sentenced as justly as the one I know 
God sentenced in this region years ago. 
I shall not name him, but when I was young 
I worked for him and knew him very well. 
He owned a farm and was the greediest 
And meanest man that I have ever known. 
Flax was his pet crop and he built great bins 
To store it in and boasted of his wealth, 
And hired half-wits from the county farm 
To keep the price of labor down. One day 
One of them slipped into a half-filled bin 
And shouted, and each crazy move he made 
Lowered him deeper, and his struggles took 

67 



Him from the bin's edge to its center. There 

He sank. I got an axe and started in 

To chop an opening to let the flax 

Out on the barn floor. Then the farmer rushed 

At me and struck me." 

"Will you spoil the work 
Of days," he shouted, "for a half-wit? Go 
About your business. I know of a way 
To get him out." 

Later we lowered planks 
To make a platform in the bin and groped 
About with grappling hooks and after while 
We pulled the fellow out. Due the delay 
To save the flax bin not a breath was left 
In his poor body. 

Well, that flax was sold 
And a new crop came in to fill the bins." 

"When they were partly filled the farmer climbed 

Up on the edge to see the flax. He stooped. 

So we supposed, to test the flax and fell. 

Just as the half-wit fell, into the bin. 

He cried for help. I found him mad with fear 

Threshing about, out in the bin with flax 

Up to his neck. 

"Cut down the bin," he screamed. 
And when I came back with the axe I heard 
No sound from him, and worked like mad to cut 
An opening. Out flooded slimy flax 
Until the floor was covered, and at last 
We pulled him out. He found his breath and moaned, 

68 



But he was crazed. He died, some years ago, 
As simple-minded as the half-wit killed 
To save a few days labor on the flax." 

"Well, dusk is coming. I must hurry home," 
He said, and rattled off among the leaves. 



69 



THE DANCE 

There's a Charity dance in the town tonight — 
For the poor five thousand miles from town! 
And Httle Meg Wynne with her eyes so bright 

Has bartered her Soul for a silken gown 
To wear to the dance, for she sighed and cried 
Over her rags for fear that her pride 
Would be hurt if she went in a garb less fair 
Than that of the Ladies who would be there. 
O there will be laughter and floods of light — 
There's a Charity dance in the town tonight! 

There's a Charity dance in the town tonight, 

Far from the alleys that starve in the town, 
To feed the starvelings far from the sight — 
And little Meg Wynne in her silken gown 
Will smile her brightest and hardly care 
For the proud old Ladies who fret and stare 
And whisper and wait for a time to say, 
"I don't see how they dress that way!" 
And ho ! The music frets in the air — 
There's a dance — ^but Charity is not there! 



70 



A PIPE SMOKER TO A COQUETTE 

I smoke my pipe . . . If I loved you I'd fill 

My heart with you as my pipe's ruddy bowl 
Is filled with good tobacco. I would will 

That there be fire then. My breath's control 
Would draw the sweetness from you, and your soul 

(If you have one) would burn. (You must allow 
Me this one fancy). Go now and console 

Yourself you are not ashes Uke these now 
Knocked from my pipe for careless winds to blow 
Since I am through with them. And even so 
As now I fill my pipe again I'd fill 
My heart again . . . 

The night is very still. 
If it were not for stars I'd think of rain . . . 
Ah, bless you, Good Pipe, we're alone again ! 



71 



AUTUMN NOCTURNE 

The restlessness of dying things 

Is in the night. 
Only the moon-mad cricket sings, 

And cold and white 
The Moon shines through the trees. 

And we go through 
Maze of Earth-Mysteries. 

I turn to you 
For love and hope, and wistfully 
You turn to me. 

The restlessness of things that pass 

Is in the air. 
O once we touched this stricken grass 

Now everywhere 
Fades the old miracle. 

So it shall be 
When Death takes toll, as well. 

Of you or me. 
We shall seek glories dreamed again 
And seek in vain. 



72 



FOLLOW THE CROWS 

The crows were flying to the south 

Of Samuel Miller's land 
Where on a marsh with grasses tall 

The crowded willows stand. 

We went to Samuel Miller's house 

And on the door we read 
The writing sprawling wide and bold — 

"Follow the Crows," it said! 

For twenty years he lived alone 

And went his secret way — 
And why he left or where he went 

Not one of us could say. 

The writing found upon the door 

Was not like his we knew; 
But no one knew just what to think 

Or thought just what to do. 

And Mary Waldron, when she died 

Bearing a nameless child. 
Thought of our tales, and screamed all night 

With voice grown loud and wild. 

"Follow the Crows," she screamed that night, 

And nothing more she said. 
We knew that she had heard us talk — 

We pitied her when dead! 
73 



And later on, for lack of work, 
Near one chill evening's close 

We read the writing on the door 
And followed then the crows. 

The crows were flying to the south 

Of Samuel Miller's land. 
We reached the marsh with grasses tall 

Where crowded willows stand. 

And on a spot among the trees 
The crows flocked all around; 

They rose with caws and heavy wings. 
The wood took up the sound. 

The grass was dying of the frost, 
And with the grass and stones 

We saw, before we turned away, 
A body's half-picked bones. 



74 



SONGS WHILE THE FIRST SNOW FALLS 

I. 

I know a field that Summer long 

Had struggled with the drouth; and grain, 
That promised much when Spring was strong 

And beautiful with sun or rain, 
Drooped in the heat of burning noon. 
Then dwarfed and browned it struggled still 
To grow, but when the Harvest Moon 
Came there the grain had failed its will. 
And chaff was blown and stalks at last 
Were broken where the winds had passed. 
O then I saw the first snow fall 
Upon that field and cover all 
The chaff and broken stalks. The skies 
Poured sunlight on the snow, and eyes 
Were strained with brightness for a day — 
And when the snow had gone away. 
Across that field that failed its dream, 
Among the broken stalks a gleam 
Of fresh green came ... A little while 
To dream again, and, dreaming, smile! 
That was a year ago . . . And then 
A new Spring sowed that field again, 
A golden season came! But, O, 
Is there a Sower who may sow 
In hearts again? What seeds are these 
Now falling white among the trees? 

75 



II. 

The first who walks new-fallen snow 
Must show the way he chose to go, 
But when a thousand feet have passed — 
Then who the First or Last may know? 

III. 
O heart that beats so restlessly, 

Burning with Life, the slow 
Sure fire that consumes you, flee 

Out to the falling snow. 

Grow calm again, and greatly stilled 

Take cool balm from above. 
My heart replies, "If I grow chilled 

What shall you do for Love?" 

IV. 
O it was very long ago 
That hearts learned language of the snow 
The snow was falling through the trees — 
The King was old and ill at ease, 
And he was weary of his crown. 
The Fool was sick of cap and bells. 
Then said the King, as he looked down 
From his bright throne, "O Fool, my gown 
Of gold put on. The blown snow tells 
My heart of tombs, and I would be 
A jester for this hour and see 
Your splendor in my place of State." 
And so the wise Fool played the King, 

76 



And so the old King played the Fool. 

Then came great tumult at the gate 

Before the palace, and the ring 

Of steel on steel. There was a pool 

Of blood upon each stair and hall. 

The Fool who played the King then came 

Down from his throne with eyes of flame. 

And with his sword he met the foe 

And struck the knights who faced him low 

And won the fight. The King who played 

The Fool in shadow sat and prayed 

With fear upon his face, until 

The foe had fled and halls were still. 

And then he heard his warriors sing, 

"Long Uve the King ! Long live the King !" 

V. 

My heart has glowed with rainbows, 
My feet have warmed the clods; 

I know the wind has spoken 
When the willow nods. 

But now the snow is falling — 

I have not had my fill 
Of hill-blooms and of rainbows 

And roads across the hill. 

Whiteness and chill and silence — 

The devil take the three! 
When snow has covered my love 

Then it may cover me! 

77 



VI. 

What shall I tell my old Love? 

Ah, yes! At last I know — 
"Your love was like a garden 

All cold and still with snow. 
You told me that when Spring came 

The golden fruit would grow." 

What shall I tell my new Love? 

Only this I'll say, 
"My heart was chilled and hungry 

And Spring was far away — 
Your love was like a thrilled house 

Where Summer came to stay." 



78 



SEEDS OF THE THISTLE 

George Martin had the finest yard in town. 

For years his care had made it smooth and green. 

He had the freshest grass, and earUest flowers 

And latest flowers at their loveUest. 

Next to his yard, upon the right, the grounds 

Of WilHam Pearson were without a weed — 

As if they profited by good example. 

But in the corner lot near Pearson's grew 

Grass in a battle with all sorts of weeds. 

John Hepple, working in the mills by day, 

Was much too busy after work to help 

The grass win over weeds, for he would sit 

For hours cursing men who gave him work. 

And told all men who cared to hear him talk 

How he would change things if he had a chance. 

And while he talked the weeds gained victories 

Over the grass, and from the winds came down 

Seeds of the thistle, and they settled there 

In Hepple's yard to grow; for there all things 

Had equal right to strive and grow or die. 

Hepple had led a strike that closed the mills 
And many hungry people in the town 
At last turned on him, and he went away 
And left the thistles growing in his yard. 

Martin and Pearson met one afternoon 

Upon the street by Hepple's yard. They stood 

79 



And looked about the place and frowned at it. 
Said Pearson, "We should have these weeds cut down 
And burned before they come to seed again." 

"It is not our affair," said Martin then, 

"We keep our own yards. Let him do the same. 

That is a brand for Hepple in this town." 

And so they walked away and each day gave 
The thistles bloom that was the hope of seeds. 

The leaves were falling — multicolored dreams 
The trees could keep no longer, and the winds — 
Ah, were they playful or but careless, strong, 
And mad with power driving dead leaves down 
The streets those leaves had shaded? 

Martin went 
One afternoon to gather up the leaves 
Piled in a far, still corner of his yard. 
He bowed to gather leaves, and then he looked 
Hard at his hand, then stared hard at the ground. 
Pearson, who wandered down to watch his friend, 
Heard Martin talking to himself. 

"What's up?" 
He called across the yard, and Martin raised 
His angry eyes, and angry voice, and said, 
"Thistles. A small one, just above the grass. 
Stuck in my fingers as I picked the leaves. 
Damn Hepple and his thistles! Now I'll go 

80 



And cut his thistles down, or they will be 
Scattered all over town." 

And Pearson said, 
"It's rather late now for the job, but still 
I'll go to help you." 

But another year 
Many young thistles lifted in the grass 
Of many yards, and some men dug them out- 
And others left the thistles go to seed. 



A YOUNG GIRL FLEES THE COMING STORM 

A young girl flees the coming storm. 
Winds lift her swirling dress; 

They clutch at her as if to bare 
Her breast's soft loveliness. 

She is afraid, and flees the storm 
That spreads its net above — 

And though Love is far mightier 
She will not flee from Love! 



82 



WINDS THAT HAVE MOVED THE 
FRIENDLY TREES, 1917 

Winds, that have moved the friendly trees to speak, 

With lyric voices, to us when we went — 
How long ago it seems — down roads to seek 

New gladness and new dreams and wonderment. 
When Spring comes back you will not find us there, 

And will not miss us, and the grass will grow 
And bluebirds sing and Earth-life thrill the air 

As one glad Spring ago. 

In our mid- Western lands some one shall sow . . 

Sunlight and starlight and the quiet rains 
Shall fall on peaceful fields that shall not know 

How blood is spilled on battered hills and plains 
Across the seas. Homes shall keep Liberty — 

Although the olden happiness gives place 
To thoughtful hopes and faith like comes to be 

In each loved absent face. 

The moonlight shall look in on places strange 

To tears, and tears shall glisten, but the Night 
Shall hold no driving foes. No bitter change 

Of hosts that ravish waits the coming light. 
The Light of Dawn ! . . . What broken homes are these ? 

What hearts by strife and sorrow stricken dumb? 
What pitted fields ? What mangled, helpless trees ? . . , 

O bleeding France, we come! 



83 



LONESOMENESS 

When I was on the old farm 

I heard the City call, 
I saw its lights in dreams then, 

Its towers bright and tall ! 

I heard its silks that rustled, 
I saw its eyes that gleamed 

With all the hopes of all things 
That I had ever dreamed. 

Then I went to the City — 
And many nights of rain 

I laid and wept for kind leaves 
To touch my window pane ! 



84 



A FAREWELL 

Farewell, Spring, and at your going 

Know that no one can forget 
Days of magic, dawn winds blowing 

Leaf and grass and violet, 
Days of dreaming, days of sowing — 

No one can forget ! 

Farewell, Spring. The cloud-ships waken 
With the winds. O take my heart 

Down the sky-seas you have taken 
Now that you at last depart. 

There are dreams you leave forsaken — 
Take, O take my heart ! 



85 



THE GRAVE 

I knew that they had not forgotten me — 

Although it's many a day 

Since footsteps passed this way. 
I have heard the leaves of the maple tree 
Grow, then fall in death upon my mound 
Here at the edge of the garden ground. 

Long did I work upon these fertile hills 

And all the ground had known 

The will of my sinew and bone 
Before I died. All this fulfills 
Promise I made myself while my children grew 
To take my place, to dig and hew. 

I knew that they had not forgotten me — 

One of my sons is here 

Now in the Spring of the year. 
With blooms or the roots of a budding tree . . . 
The footsteps sound like Caspar's, very slow 
And sturdy — like he used to hoe. 

I knew that they had not forgotten me — 
It's Caspar . . . His spade is keen. 
He digs my mound that is green . . . 

God, he is planting parsley! 

Why won't they let me rest now my work is done? 

Well, Caspar was always a thrifty son! 

86 



THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT GO TO WAR 

The man who would not go to war was young. 
His strength was known through all the neighboring 

farms — 
And yet, he would not heed his Nation's call. 
He worked upon the farm that was the pride 
Of that locality. He told each one 
Who spoke of war that he would keep his place 
Till he was forced to go. When work was done 
He roamed about the farm, and in his eyes 
Was love of rich land and its fruitfulness. 
And still he did not seem to love the Flag 
That had made sure his young prosperity. 
He sat at night and thought of level fields. 
Of grain that turned to gold beneath the sun. 
While other men went forth to fight and die. 

His father, who had faced a firing-line, 
Was half ashamed of him. He told his son, 
"Your younger brother can stay here and help 
Upon the farm. Even your sister knows 
Enough to help me well enough that you 
Can go to war, and still the farm will be 
As good as ever." 

But the son replied, 
"I love this land." 

"But not enough to fight 
For it," his father shouted angrily . . . 

87 



The man who would not go to war was tired. 

Early he went to bed, and thought awhile 

Of crops he planted, then in troubled sleep 

War came to him. In dreams he saw a host 

Of strangers on the sky Hne. Rifles cracked 

And red death fell on his beloved fields. 

Land that his father gained from wilderness 

Was plowed with shells. And in his dream he saw 

His father, with his gray head bared to Death, 

Stand on his door step with his Country's flag 

Waving defiance. Then his father fell 

And the flag fell across his silent breast. 

The house leaped into flame. His sister rushed 

Out of the door and raised the flag again. 

She fell and over her the flag. He saw 

A flash of fire from the doorway. There 

His brother stood firing as steadily 

As those who faced him. From behind him came 

His mother — and again the flag was raised . . . 

And madly in the dream he broke the chains 
That seemed to hold him and cried out in sleep 
A battle-cry that echoed through the house. 
His brother wakened and called out to him, 
"What is the matter with you?" 

"Go to sleep," 
He answered him, "I'll tell you in the morning." 
And in the morning he left for town, 
With fire in his eyes, to volunteer. 

88 



DEWDROPS 

The dewdrops are the tears of Stars that weep 
For gladness, hearing from some crystal spheres 
Such harmonies as take from olden tears 
The bitterness of Oceans that made deep 
Each tear that marked an Age's cheek ere Sleep 
Came to the Age and turned its dreams to years 
Of growing beauty and of dying fears 
For a new Age that on the Quest should keep. 

Or are the dewdrops tears the Stars let fall 

Because the Ages blunder and are long 

To find the way where sad tears may not be? 

Because so many hearts have heard the call 

Of pipes in star-lanes, and with answering song 

Crept near the Stars — and stopped on Calvary? 



89 



SONG 

You ask me sometimes, "Do you love me?" 

I answer, "Yes — my heart still beats." 
You ask me sometimes, "Do I please you?" 

I answer, "Yes — the sun still meets 

With my approval." 

Then you smile — 

As if you knew it all the while! 



90 



I HAD FORGOTTEN 

I had forgotten, so it seems, 

The dear companionship of Dreams, 

A Uttle while — I heard old lies 

Then saw the true dreams of your eyes. 

I had forgotten — Ah, but then 

I never can forget again! 

A little while — how soon it seems 

Life comes and goes, then lives in Dreams! 



91 



CHRISTMAS EVE, 1917 

I bring no wreaths of holly to the shrine 
I keep for you within the troubled days ; 
No mistletoe I bring; no crown of bays. 
Instead I bring dreams that are yours and mine, 
And will fight for them, I take no wine 
Of quick desires and of sweet delays 
Of fancy wreathing mists near hell that sways 
With might of conflict on each firing line. 

And yet — and yet I dream of other nights 
When hand in hand we watched the fire glow. 
How red the days, how long and brave since then ! 
And so I face the morrow for the rights 
Of firesides that love like ours may know. 
Fostered by Peace and the good will of Men, 



92 



THE DESERT AND THE SEA 

I love the Desert with its glow 

Of lights unreal, its far 
Flung colors of the dawn, its slow 

Still passion in a star. 

I love the sea with depth of blues. 

Its waves pearl-crested cast 
Upon bright sands, its changing hues 

Where winds or ships have passed. 

But have you seen a storm come down. 
Swirled sand and crashing wind 

Upon the desert, leaving brown 
And gray still things behind? 

And have you seen a storm that slashed 

The smooth breast of the sea 
And freed a thing that writhed and dashed 

In mad immensity? 

The desert's rainbows, and its gray. 
The sea's wrath, and its blue — 

Here on my heart is marked the way 
I came in loving you. 



93 



SONG 

Would you go in chariot 
Of golden cloud, Milady? 
Or are you happy that we go 
Where the gods and grasses know 
That we kiss where nooks are shady 
On the road to Singing Water? 

Many shady nooks there are. 
Heigh-ho! Dawn's Daughter! 



94 



MARGARITA 

I found her walking where the yuccas sway 
To winds from ranges of the stars that bring 
Desires for all things of which they sing 
And quick belief in all words they say. 
Her lips were like red flowers on the way 
To clear spring water, and there seemed to cling 
About her breast a warmth of sun like Spring 
Gives to a bud that blossoms in a day. 

She said, "Senor, you have been far from here 
And know so many things I do not know 
Of Life and Love. Tell me, or I shall weep, 
Must I wed one whose house is very near 
Although his kisses leave me cold as snow. 
When one long absent kisses me in sleep?" 



95 



THE LOQUACIOUS OUTLAW 

You should be flattered to be robbed so frankly. 

But I suppose you think my method crude, 

Not in accord with all the best traditions 

That you respect. I understand you came 

To rob not one but many, in this place, 

By your well-named and carefully worked out 

Investment. Keep your hands up! That is good. 

You see, I am not blessed with all your wits. 

I rob one at a time and take my chance. 

While you are clever. You can rob a widow 

And make her think that she is given cause 

For gratitude to you. In other words. 

You rob within the Law and I without. 

For I am frank by nature. I was once 

A rising politician, but I failed 

At that because — Keep up your hands, I say! 

These crisp bills which I gladly take from you 

No doubt came to you by no honest means. 

And since I do not know from whence they came 

I keep them, with regrets, for my own use. 

I must apologize because I take 

Your wallet in this fashion. Had I time 

To think out schemes I might have pleased you more 

By selling you some stocks I bought from you. 

Keep up your hands ! Your memory grows weak . . . 

I know that you are used to shaking hands. 

There are so many ways of robbing one. 
That, after observation, I have come 

96 



To think my way is best. You know, it leaves 
One no delusions . . . 

There was once a man 
Who bought land from you — bad land, brush and 

stones — 
Where you had vowed to let the water in 
And make the garden spot of all the world. 
He had three thousand dollars to his name — 
You talked four thousand dollars out of him, 
And knew you lied, and then forgot him. Well, 
That man had wife and child, who went with him 
Upon that land. Your promised water failed 
Him in his need. He had delusions still . . . 
That's the unfair part of your robbery! 
He starved on that land with his wife and child 
For three years, went through hell, came out again 
And shut the gates. Then, desperate, he drilled 
At his expense, with money born of blood. 
For water — and struck oil . . , He lost his wife 
About the time he found the oil. She died 
From overwork and misery. The child 
Died shortly after, and the oil flowed up 
With riches from that cursed ground. The man 
Sold out for a good fortune — which he spent 
Trying to heal a broken heart . . . Now go — 
And keep your hands up till you find the turn 
In this road to your right. Again I say 
I think I steal the better; just because 
I rob no one but thieves. Keep up your hands ! 



97 



TO THE NIGHT WIND 

I. 
O I have heard you, Night Wind, when the Spring 

Was waking in a night of crowded stars, 
Singing such songs as make the World's heart sing, 

And as you sang it seemed the earth's old scars 
Were covered with new grasses and with dew ; 

And nothing ached save with the sweet desire 
Of love and growth that is forever new. 

With dreams that build the soul's white altar fire. 

O Night Wind, let my heart in Springtime be 
To you as grasses growing and as blooms. 
While past the crowded stars God watches me, 

let it keep the stillness and perfumes. 

And make it glad as wild seeds that break through 
The hardened mold to starlight and the dew. 

II. 
And, Night Wind, when the grain was like the sea 

Of rippled gold beneath the summer moon. 
Oft I have heard you singing tenderly. 

And as you sang I heard a mother croon ; 

1 heard the under-songs of streams that fed 
The roots of roses, and your singing told 

How the wild buds burst into flowers red, 
And how the grain was turned to living gold. 

O Night Wind, let my heart in Summer be 
To you as grain that ripens and as fruit 

98 



That waits a little longer on the tree 
That still has life that thrills in branch and root. 
And make it fearless as the things that know 
They give but payment for their right to grow. 

III. 
And, O Night Wind, when leaves were drifting down, 

And the great, wide-eyed moon was full of dreams, 
When all the harvest fields were hushed and brown. 

And mists hung listless over meadow streams, 
Oft I have heard you chanting till the night 

Was like a temple where the heart could rest, 
Where all things that had sought and found the Light 

Were called again unto the mother-breast. 

O Night Wind, let my heart in Autumn be 
To you as leaves that give their all and go, 
As harvest fields where naught is left to see. 
Because their grain was reaped, but let me know 
Some heart is fuller for the gift mine gave, 
Some soul is braver that my soul is brave. 

IV. 
O Night Wind, let my heart be like all things 

That mortal are, but let my soul arise 
With you and go upon untiring wings 

As you go, singing, bold and free and wise 
Yet tender as you are, and full of might. 

Through changing seasons with their changeless end. 
To all the hearts that listen in the night 

To sing their dreams, to urge them, and befriend. 

99 



And, sometimes, I would give myself to storm 
And scatter fears among the hearts that feed 
On other hearts eager and true, and warm 
With love of life for which they oft must bleed. 
But O, how I would sing when seeds broke through 
The hardened mold to starlight and the dew ! 



lOO 



CAMOUFLAGE 

When brother John came back from War he made 

Believe that he was bhnd, to fool his wife. 

He wore black glasses all the time and had 

Someone to guide him and to read to him. 

He told me all about it when his wife 

Knew that his eyes were cured. And he had been 

Pretending treatment for his blindness, too, 

And did it very well. His eyes were sore 

When he came home and that gave him the plan 

Of playing blind. He said that he had doubted 

His wife to some extent before he left, 

And wondered how she looked and acted since 

She thought his eyes were useless. She had been 

Raised in the city, as you know, and found 

Life in a small town rather dull. She took 

More pleasure, than he liked, in wearing clothes 

A trifle show-like, and her cheeks at times 

Were touched with rouge. His friends would talk to 

her 
With just a little more of enjoyment 
Than he found pleasing. So he went to War 
With some vague doubts, although he never spoke 
To her about her ways. You know he is 
A rather sober, grim young man . . . Folks wondered 
That he had married such a charming girl. 



Well, as I said, when he came back from War 
He made believe that he was blind. His wife 

lOI 



Cried over him and made a child of him 
And since no money-matters troubled them 
She did her best to make him happy. Now 
The two of them work overtime to make 
The big house full of happiness. He saw. 
The first day he came back, that she was dressed 
In plainer clothes and that her cheeks were pale. 
One day she wore a new dress plainer still 
Than were the others, but she seemed to look 
Better in plain things. He came back one day 
With his attendant, from a near-by town. 
Took his black glasses off, and told his wife 
His eyes were cured. And she was wild with joy . 



That night she said, "John, have you noticed that 

I do not look so girUsh any more? 

You used to say you loved the silly things 

I wore when you first knew me. Look at me. 

And tell me if you think I look too old. 

I always liked plain things, but they cost more 

Than other kinds and I could not afford 

To buy them until we were married, then 

I was afraid you'd think I looked too old — 

And kept on wearing things I did not like 

Because you liked them. When you came home blind 

I did not think about the change, but now 

I know you'll notice — and you'll think I'm old 

And then you will not love me." 

There were tears 
In eyes and voice, he said, with him at loss 

I02 



Whether to laugh or cry. 

"Dear girl," he said, 
"Wear anything that pleases you and that 
Will please me. Now let's talk a little while 
About that word that puzzles you. It comes 
From France and is called Camouflage. It means- 



103 



THE LARK AND THE GUINEA HENS 

Some guinea hens that wandered far afield 
Came to a lark resting upon a reed. 
"What do you do?" they chattered at the lark. 
The lark replied, "I sing." 

The guinea hens 
Laughed loud at this, and one said to the lark, 
"We never heard you sing. Account for that!" 
Replied the lark, "I sing near gates of blue 
That open on the vales of Paradise 
When Morning comes with flowers in her hair. 
If you knew how to listen you could hear." 
Again the guinea hens laughed loud. They cried, 
"That is a poor excuse. Sing if you can 
And we shall listen." 

So the lark arose 
Happy to get away from them, and sang 
Up, up into blue-flowered fields of Sky. 

"He hid behind that tree," the guinea hens 
Screeched to each other, well pleased with themselves. 
They made such noise they could not hear the song 
And were quite sure the lark had lied to them . . . 
And, out of sight in vasts beyond their thoughts, 
The lark sang— and forgot the guinea hens ! 



104 







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015 906 621 6 




